


Reclamation

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Stripper, Angst, Barebacking, Established Relationship, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-08
Updated: 2009-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her daddy dead, and abandoned, half-killed on the beach, Elle turns to stripping to survive. But Sylar's back, with his new protégé in tow, and he wants to reclaim what's his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclamation

**Author's Note:**

> Luke is 17.

The thump of the music thrums through Sylar's veins. The club smells like piss cheap beer, smoke and sex. Luke's jaw hangs open as he gawks; the kid had popped a boner the second his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Luke," Sylar shouts over the din; "Luke!" again to get his attention.

He shoves a wad of money into Luke's sweaty hand and bellows directly into his ear, "Go get her for me like a good boy, okay?"

Luke nods, licking his lips, his expression a mixture of fear and determination. Sylar gives him an affectionate kiss then pushes him into the crowd, sidles to the bar, watching Luke clutch his fake ID like a shield as he makes his way towards the strippers on the stage.

"There's no way that kid's twenty-one," the barman rasps, uninvited.

Sylar's back stiffens and he frowns, but the bartender only laughs, sets a scotch before him on the filthy bar.

"On the house," he says.

At Sylar's questioning, up-raised eyebrow, he leers, "We share the same taste in boyfriends."

His glare has the barman scuttling away, and Sylar downs the burning alcohol to quell the sickening churning in his stomach his words have stoked. Then, he scans the crowd again, keeps a closer eye on Luke than he'd first intended, never thinking Luke might be bait in a room full of half-nude women and cheering men.

Luke's baby face attracts attention; the strippers walking 'round, letting men buy them drinks and dancing on their tables, coo and flock towards him. Sylar watches Luke study their faces as he slips them five dollar bills, always into their g-strings because Luke's never been big on breasts. He doesn't try to hide that erection that's straining against his fly.

But when they grab at his shoulders, keen eyes having spotted the wad of cash he clutches in one sweaty fist, Luke wriggles away, shrugging them off. He orders drinks he doesn't drink to catch the waitresses' eyes and sits down at tables uninvited to check out the strippers undulating on the laps of the pervs who come here for fun. Sylar's a heartbeat away from going to grab him by the collar, before his indiscreet behaviour gets them both kicked out, when the music changes and Luke's face whips towards the stage. His whole body goes rigid like a pointer dog and Sylar looks up, to see her _there_, stalking towards the pole, centre stage, in thigh high stiletto boots.

"Good boy," he murmurs under his breath, raises his glass in Luke's direction and watches as Elle grasps the silver pole in her hands and swings herself around.

She's changed, not just from dead to alive; her hair is longer now, longer than really suits her, and the makeup she wears is too thick for her delicate features. It takes Sylar a moment to understand her outfit: a toolbelt looped loosely around her hips, a denim skirt she rips off to reveal a shiny gold g-string below. It's the sparking lights above her head that tip him off; she must be the club's only sexy electrician.

She swivels her hips, pushing out her ass and breasts, whipping off her bra which such fierceness that her breasts bounce with the movement. The crowd is going wild, packed up close against the stage and it isn't hard to tell that Elle's the club's star attraction. He wonders how long she's been working this joint and _why_. She has a beaming smile plastered across her face, so well rehearsed that it's hard to tell it's fake. Sylar guesses that Company training really does set you up for life.

Elle's down on her hands and knees now, eyes hard as she crawls towards the leering men. They stuff tightly folded dollar bills in the strings of her panties, groping wherever they can get away with. And Sylar's so busy staring at her, his own cock throbbing between his legs, even while his hand is clenched so tightly around his glass that it might crack with the strain at any moment, that he doesn't realise he's lost sight of Luke until he spots him, leaning his elbows on the stage, licking his lips as Elle sashays nearer.

She sees him there, or more likely, she sees the ridiculous wodge of cash he's waving first, but when she really looks at his face, that innocent, little boy smile he does so well, Sylar thinks he's a flicker of the old Elle in her grin. She crouches next him, side on, so that he gets an eye-level view of her near bare ass, her legs looking longer with the added height of her boots. Luke holds up his money to her and she cocks her hip, lets him slide the folded bills and his finger under the waistband of her g-string. But when she stands, Luke doesn't take his hand away. His finger and the money moves with the movement of her body, so that his knuckle glides down from her hip to the front of pussy, the money against the gusset of her panties, his skin to hers.

Elle glares down at him, grips his wrist angrily, but before the bouncer can make his way toward him, Luke's body convulses. Sylar watches him wince as he yanks his finger from against her cunt, and with a half-grimace at the pain, half-triumphant smile, Luke sucks his burnt finger, wet from her, into his mouth as he holds Sylar's gaze. And as Luke is tilting his head subtly towards the stage, Sylar has to press the heel of his hand against his dick as it aches with what he's just seen.

"Little punk," Sylar growls to no one in particular, glaring at the bartender when he sees he's touching himself too, beady eyes tracking Luke as he trots back towards the bar.

Sylar pushes off his barstool, his gait heavy with his erection as he meets Luke in the middle of the club floor. He kisses Luke softly on the lips, to mark what's his, and guides him into a booth. As soon as they're in the shadows, he grabs Luke roughly by the throat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, pulling a stunt like that? Are you trying to get yourself arrested?" Sylar's huffing angry breaths through his nose, more mad at himself for this outburst of rage he can't seem to contain than at Luke, for doing what he's been told.

"Check it out," Luke giggles proudly, voice rasping through Sylar's strangle hold, utterly unconcerned by the black look on Sylar's giving him, as he holds out his spit-wet finger for Sylar to see. Blisters are bubbling on his skin. "Man, she fried me good. She's totally the one, right?"

Sylar drops him with an exasperated grunt.

"Yes," he snarls, trying to keep the small burst of pride he feels for Luke's resourcefulness to himself. With Sylar's description of 'blonde, petite and pretty,' any one of the strippers could have fit the bill, but he honed in on Elle's power like a scent hound, flushed it out for a firm ID before reporting back to Sylar. He thinks that for all Luke's an aggravation, he might not be completely useless, yet.

He rakes his fingers through Luke's hair with grudging approval, his spine stiffening as Luke immediately shifts closer, one hand rubbing up his inner thigh under the table.

"Sylar," he begs, nuzzling against his neck, his hand pressing against Sylar's dick, now, through his jeans, his body twisting awkwardly to try and hump his own erection against Sylar's hip.

"Not here," Sylar hisses.

Luke whines, scrabbling at him, trying to break free from the hand that's now fisting in his hair, keeping him at bay. "No one's gonna see. Everyone's doing it."

But that isn't quite right. Sylar squints into the smoky, darkened room; there're a few guys with a girls, a few guys alone but it's mostly guys in groups with their hands down their own pants. He isn't in the mood to attract the kind of attention Luke crawling all over him would generate.

"Keep it in your pants, or I'll cut it off."

Luke rolls his eyes at the threat, slumps back against the booth with a huff, palming his cock out of spite, staring but not really seeing the new stripper on the stage.

Sylar waves a hostess over as he slings a mollifying arm around Luke's shoulders.

"I wanna buy my friend a lap dance. A private lap dance," he yells into the music. Luke sits a little straighter, his hand pressing harder now at his fly as he whimpers. "That blonde who was on earlier. The one with the sexy sparks?"

The hostess eyes Luke with disdain; he automatically holds up his fake ID but she only snorts and shakes her head.

"We don't do tag teams," she says curtly.

"Hey!" Sylar says, leaning back, holding his hands up innocently as if he doesn't know how they ever got to touching Luke. "S'not like that. I'm just gonna watch."

He slides a hundred dollar bill onto her tray, can see her resolve start to crack. He grabs Luke by the chin, twists his face up to her and, even without the kick to his ankle that Sylar gives him under the table, he gives the sweetest, butter-wouldn't-melt smile. "Don't you think he deserves something special for his birthday?"

Another hundred on the tray and she's leading them both back behind the beaded curtain to the private room.

Luke sits heavily on the stained couch; Sylar pays off the bouncer for a little more privacy before sitting beside him. This time when Luke moves automatically up against him, his left thigh pressed to Sylar's right, his head leaning back against the arm Sylar's stretched over the back of the couch, Sylar only frowns but doesn't make him move.

Elle strides into the room, her skirt and golden bra back on, those same thigh high boots resounding as she stomps towards them "Hey there, boys. I hear it's someone's birthday-"

She only falters for a second, eyes flickering with something like hate as she glances at Sylar's face. Then, she's moving forward as if they've never met, never mind fucked and watched each other die.

"It's your lucky day, cutie," she purrs at Luke, acrylic nails dragging gently along his baby smooth chin.

"You ever had a woman in your lap before?"

Luke shakes his head wildly, dumbstruck in her presence and Sylar laughs, mostly at Luke, a little at her for this charade of sexiness she doesn't feel, and a little, sheepishly, at himself for getting off on it all the same. She glares at him, holds up her hand in that way he remembers intimately, that way that warns his skin's going to be seared from his body if doesn't watch his tongue. But that's never worked on him, and maybe she knows it, because she doesn't look surprised when he pushes that unspoken line, pulls out the last of his cash and shoves it at her.

"You've already paid," she says, staring at the bills like she'd rather take a fistful of shit from him than take his money.

Sylar shrugs, tucks the cash into the top of one of her boots, his fingers gently brushing against the soft skin of her thigh.

"A bonus then," he says, inclining his head at Luke. "For when you make him pop."

"Don't come too soon, now," he says to Luke, his arm settling possessively on his shoulders, laughing into his ear as Luke swallows dryly. "I want to get my money's worth."

She swings a leg over Luke's lap, straddling him, rotating her hips as she settles down. Luke's hands fly instinctively to her waist but she grips his wrists.

"No touching, kid," she says kindly but firmly, pressing Luke's hands back to the sofa, her expression barely registering surprise as Luke immediately reaches for Sylar's hips if he can't hold onto hers.

"Oh!" Luke gasps, his nails scratching at Sylar's inseam, his head lolling desperately on Sylar's shoulder. "Oh man, she's right on my dick."

"Mmm hmm," Sylar agrees, kissing Luke's temple to ground him, letting him squirm and writhe against his side as he watches Elle's skirt hike up her thighs with the swivel and twist of her body. The outline of her pussy lips is visible through the flimsy fabric of her g-string.

Then, she's leaning forward and her nipples are hard nubs under the gold lame of her bra, from the attention or from the pinch of her own fingers before she let herself be put on show, he doesn't know. He breasts sway alluringly in front of their faces; Luke's eyes are glazed and wide as he whimpers and rolls his hips up into hers. She's pushing her breasts right up against them and Luke's biting his bottom lip, eyes scrunched shut in concentration, and for someone who's never really been a breast man, Luke looks like he's close to coming from the warm press of her against his cheeks.

With a lewd smirk, Sylar tugs at the back tie of her bra with his mind, his dick pulsing harder at the memory of how wild she went when he used to strip her with his powers. Now, though, her yelp isn't ecstasy, it's surprise mixed with irritation. But she takes the dare, her eyes locking challengingly to his as she unties the knot at the back of her neck and lets her bra fall into Sylar's lap. Sylar licks his dry lips, looks deliberately at her chest, her breasts still as small and firm as he remembers, at her nipples still as dusky pink and pert as the memory he so often jerks off to.

It takes all his self control not to throw her against the wall and fuck her like he wants to.

Then, there's a smug grin that's tugging at her lips and Sylar thinks that maybe she knows full well how much she's ruffled his composure. She's leaning forward, rubbing her bare breasts to Luke's face, letting her hard nipples trace along his pouty bottom lip, but it's Sylar that she's looking in the eye, all the while. Suddenly, he darts forward, his cheek so tight to Luke's that he _feels_ his own stubble scrape along Luke's baby soft jaw and with a firm tongue, he licks a hot stripe over her nipple. She gasps, and her hips jerk against Luke's, and when Sylar drags his teeth gently over that hardened point, she and Luke both cry out as Luke comes, with a strangled grunt, in his pants.

Luke's panting and laughing as he's coming down, head bowed forward so that his sweaty forward presses to the centre line of her chest. Sylar leans back against the sofa, legs sprawling to relieve some of the ache in his cock, and he watches as his saliva glistens on her delicate skin. After a moment to catch her breath, she pushes Luke back against the pillows.

"That was amazing," he slurs.

"It always is," she says with a cocky flip of her too-long hair.

Before she can wriggle off him, he clutches lightly at her hips.

"Do him too," he begs in a fitful rush. Sylar's eyes narrow warningly but Luke babbles on. "Here!"

He flicks up her skirt, tucks a fistful of bills into the waistband of her g-string, pick pocketed fifties and hundreds, not the ones and fives that Sylar had given to him. He hooks his thumb there too, to keep the money in place, and his middle finger slides with aching slowness down the plain of gold lame underneath his fingertips. They hold each other's eyes, neither flinching when the pad of his finger reaches the apex of her pussy lips, and he crooks his finger, rubbing her there through her underwear with a confidence and skill Sylar would never have expected.

And now, instead of frying him or slapping him in the face, Elle looks at Sylar, at the scowl on his face and she swivels her hips, circling her clit on Luke's finger where the pressure of his touch has sunken her g-string between her lower lips. Under the music, Sylar can hear their heavy breathing and the slick slide of Elle's wetness against her skin; Elle hunches forward, captures Luke's lips in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, still rubbing up against his hand as her breasts press up against his chest.

Luke seems to have forgotten about the lap dance that was meant to be Sylar's and about the burly bouncer who is going to notice in a minute or two that none of what they're doing is legal. And most of all, most infuriating to Sylar, he seems to forgotten their mission: locate, ID and retrieve; in a moment of hormones and weakness. So Sylar shoves his hand between them, squeezes Luke's groin roughly, the cooling semen in his boxers squelching as Sylar pinches his oversensitive dick. Luke yelps, all but shoving Elle away in self defence.

"Dude!" he groans. "Not cool."

"It's my turn," Sylar growls, trying to ignore how petulant he sounds to his own ears.

For a moment, Elle looks like she might say 'no,' then she shakes out her hair and that Company-fake smile is back. She kisses Luke demurely on the cheek and says, "It's been fun, kid," as she settles herself on Sylar's lap instead.

Even through his jeans, her cunt feels hot against him. She fishes her bra from where she'd discarded it in his lap, fingering the line of his erection as she balls the gold fabric in her fist. Then, she's _right on his dick_, swirling and swivelling and humping him in time to the thump of the music that rattles his teeth. And all it once, it feels like he's going to cream himself far quicker than even Luke did. So, he hauls her up by the hips, ignoring her protesting yelp, until she's sitting up on her knees and her pussy is level with his hips. He darts forward, presses his mouth where Luke's finger has been, his tongue strong, swiping firm enough to tease her g-string to the side.

Her fingers are twisting in his hair, pushing him further between her legs and he's lapping and sucking and kissing her hard. Under the hot thrum of blood echoing in his ears and his cock, Sylar can hear Luke panting like _he's_ the one getting eaten out.

Then, Elle's wrenched from his grip and the bouncer is roaring in anger. Before Sylar can even wipe his mouth dry, Elle turns furiously on her heel, breasts bobbing as she does, and she zaps the guy, hissing, "Get your hands off me, meathead!"

He tumbles backwards falling through the beaded curtain, ass first, back onto the main floor of the club and while the current was only enough to stun, now more guys are rushing in. Luke nukes one with a manic laugh, all the way, charbroiled, and the next one Elle hits gets fried like he's in an electric chair. Then, in amongst the screaming and the wailing and the rush to get away, Elle and Luke grin at each other, like kindred spirits; he yanks his sweatshirt over his head, blushing a little when she pulls it on to cover her bare chest.

"Thanks, kid."

"No problem."

Then, with a growl of exasperation, Sylar adjusts the front of his pants, following in their wake as they nuke and fry their way through the club. It's bloodbath where all the blood has been boiled and charred; they take down every guy they spot, leaving the strippers unscathed.

Sylar trots behind them, critically eyeing their technique. They have good aim but they're too impulsive; together, they egg each other on. In the future, they'll need ground rules, but for now, he feels a warm sense of satisfaction to see the perverts who've tried to put their hands on her killed, and he figures it's better she gets that murderous rage out on other people, than directing it at him.

The bartender is the only one Sylar kills himself, his throat slit for the way he'd leered at Luke.

A young stripper, her platinum blonde wig askew, crouches, weeping, just behind the bar. Her chest is flat beneath her bra; she has barely any hips to speak of. She's all acrylic nails, angles and sunken ribs. Sylar thinks she's Luke's age at best and the now-dead barman's type at worst. In front of him, Luke seems to hesitate when he sees her, takes one faltering step towards her.

"Luke!" Sylar snaps, as she presses her face to her up-drawn knees and wraps her arms around her head in fear.

Luke looks at him, something in his eyes Sylar that can't quite place stops him from yelling twice. He watches as Luke crouches down, not getting near enough to scare her worse, and he digs in his jeans pocket, pulls out fistfuls of dirty cash, slides the whole wad along the blood and come stained floor towards her.

"Here!" he shouts, over the thumping music, the screams and sobs.

"Take it," he orders desperately. "Take it!" he snaps again, hovering there until her hands dart out and she crumples the bills in tiny fists.

Luke turns away, and then, Elle is at his side. She links her fingers with his, smiling back when he smiles shyly at her. With a snort of sudden irritation, Sylar puts his hands to the smalls of their backs and shoves them bodily out the door. "Come on, let's go!"

The night air is cool, and it clears his head. Luke has an arm around Elle's waist; she has both arms slung around his neck. They giggle like drunken teenagers as he helps her run in her stilettos. Sylar bites back a growl of jealousy to see Luke's hand slide up under the hem of his hoody she's wearing, his fingers curling around her hip. He scans the streets before them, stalks toward a bright red, two-door convertible. Some jackass has parked it beside a fire hydrant, left the car at 2 am with the top down, on this side of town; Sylar grins to himself at the arrogance of wealth and murmurs under his breath, "Asking for it."

He jumps into the drivers' seat, flips the ignition with his mind, leaning over to unlock the passenger side door for them. Luke slides in and Elle perches on his lap, her thighs framing his as she keeps her arms locked around him. They speed away from the club, sunken in darkness with the headlights off, and in the distance, Sylar can hear the far off wail of sirens.

Pressed tight to Luke, Elle's whispering fitful things in his ear. They laugh together, eyes trained on each other's faces, not once glancing over at him. Even as Sylar slams on the radio, stomping on the gas pedal to match the tempo of the music, Elle does nothing but reach one hand blindly behind her to fiddle with volume. And somehow, in Luke's oversized sweatshirt, excess fabric pooling at her hips and shoulders, her thigh high boots hiked tall so that the only flesh she's showing is a strip of fake tanned skin just below her ass, Sylar finds she's sexier than when she was writhing on him, only a scrap of gold lame between her legs.

Now, they're kissing, hungry, deep and desperate. Luke's fingers tangle in her hair and hold her close. Her hips are swivelling, grinding down, and it's nothing like it was in the club; Sylar's nostrils flare at the scent of sex rolling off them, and he knows that as she rubs herself against Luke's renewed erection, she's as wet as Luke is hard. Luke pants into her mouth, hips lifting off the seat to press to hers and they make those pretty sounds together that only Sylar is supposed to make them make. The blaze of jealousy deep in his chest erupts out of him as rage.

"Stop it!" he snaps, ferociously enough that for once they actually listen.

Luke clears his throat, sheepishly looking down as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; Elle brushes her hair back from her face, from where it's caught at the corner of her lips, trapped in the gloss of her lipstick. Together, they grin knowingly at him.

"What?" he growls.

"Nothing," Elle purrs, sharing a look with a Luke, a look that Sylar hates because without even exchanging names, they've forged this natural connection he doesn't share.

And as he fumes, thinking that maybe this has been a mistake, Sylar feels Luke hook his forefinger in the belt loop of his jeans, curl it there and tug him fractionally towards them. Elle's hand smoothes up his inner thigh, the tips of her fake nails scratching lightly over the outline of his cock, teasing him through thick denim. Almost unconsciously, Sylar lets his thighs splay wider, hands white knuckled on the steering wheel as they grope him and grope each other.

When Elle thumbs at the button of his fly, he floors it and pulls over at the first motel they spot, the stench of burning rubber acrid on the back of his tongue as the car screeches to a halt, slung diagonally over the white line between two parking spots.

The tumble from the car, Elle and Luke still clinging to each other and with a snarl, Sylar shepherds them towards a random room door. Elle grabs Luke by the front of his t-shirt and shoves him roughly up against the door, giving Sylar a smug look over her shoulder as she kisses him hungrily, her thigh pressing up between Luke's legs. It takes two tries for Sylar to pick the lock with his mind when they're a gasping, writhing distraction that's pissing him off and turning him on all at once.

The door swings open on the dark, vacant room and Luke stumbles backwards, pulling them all over the threshold. Sylar slams the door behind him and then slams Luke with TK across the room. He's too busy grabbing Elle by the wrist and shoving her as roughly to the wall as she'd shoved Luke to the door to register where Luke lands or how. He must be mostly fine, though, because the lights flick on and sickly yellow illuminates the room. From somewhere behind him, he hears Luke mutter, "This place is a total dive," with something like awe.

Sylar and Elle ignore him, mouths locked in a kiss that's more like a bite, Sylar ripping Luke's thick, brown sweatshirt up over her head and tossing it aside.

"I forgot how cute you are when you're jealous, Gabe," she whispers huskily, and before Sylar can retort, her hands are at his fly, tearing open his jeans and shoving them down his thighs. Sylar's hands seem to work on instinct, pulling at the flimsy catch of her skirt, his breath stuttering in his chest as it flutters easily to the floor, like a good stripper outfit should. The bra she's been clutching in her fist has long been dropped and Sylar's cupping a breast, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple, groaning as it hardens to his touch. And then, he's spinning her around, all but ripping his t-shirt in two to get it off, and he tosses her violently onto the bed, the mattress bouncing as he lands heavily on top of her.

Elle's hands seem small on his hips, smaller than he remembers, smaller than Luke's, but the charge she zaps through him is every bit as agonizing as it used to be. "Not so rough," she growls.

He grunts his surprise, but doesn't really question it, not when her hands are sliding over his bare ass, and dragging him tighter between her legs; the sodden scrap of fabric that passes for her panties is all that's keeping them apart. Sylar ducks his head, scrapes his teeth over her nipple, just as he did at the club, smiling wolfishly into her skin when she tips her chin back and groans. He reaches down, rubs his fingers over her cunt, hooking them in the cheap, drenched fabric and pushing it aside. He splays his fingers over her pussy, dragging one fingertip through her slit to feels how wet her folds are and then teasing higher, mapping his way over her swollen, puffy flesh, his thumb pressed to her clit to make her buck up against him.

And as he caresses her, an irrational wave of anger rips through him, anger at the feel of smooth, waxed skin when he remembers soft, damp, blonde curls; anger at the blood red lipstick that's too cheap for her, smeared over her mouth, his and Luke's; anger at the realisation that her hair he thought too long, is bulked out with tawdry, straw yellow extensions. He hates her for having changed, for having changed for other men; he hates himself for being the reason she's had to. And, he wants to fuck everything that's fake right out of her, fuck her until she's screaming his name, her cunt clenching around him as he comes too, and then, he thinks desperately, then, maybe she'll be the Elle he left behind.

Beside their shoulders, the mattress dips. Sylar snarls at Luke, a wordless, possessive warning to keep his distance, but the kid just breaths, "_Dude_," seemingly happy enough with his soiled jeans shoved around his thighs, fist pumping his cock as he leans against the headboard and watches. Elle grabs Sylar's dick, forces his attention back to her and rubs the head through her pussy lips, against her throbbing clit until they're gasping into each other's mouths, and her wetness has slicked him from crown to balls.

Sylar doesn't bother with a condom; they never have. He lets Elle line him up and slams into her with one long, hard thrust, her bitten back whimper of pain reminding him too late that she didn't want it rough.

But, maybe she doesn't know what she wants because she cries out too, drags those acrylic nails down his back and wraps her legs around his waist. The points of her stiletto heels, on those fuck me boots she's still wearing, dig painfully into his upper thighs, but it only makes him thrust harder. His hips are snapping back and forth, setting a gruelling pace, and he can hear Luke's hand sliding quicker and quicker as he tries to keep up, his boyish groans mixing with Sylar's and hers. In the back of his mind, Sylar's aware he's fucking her harder than he's ever fucked Luke, no matter how mad he can make him; she's back from the dead, seemingly invincible like him, in way that breakable, broken Luke never could be, and Sylar doesn't know if it's Elle or himself he's punishing for it.

Her hips arch up off the bed, and he can feel an electric crackle running dancing through his pubic hair as blue sparks fizzle over Elle's clit and jolt into him as she grinds herself against him. She doesn't scream his name when she comes, but she screams. He braces both of his forearms beside her shoulders and ploughs, hard, into her pliant body, hips jerking arrhythmically, once, twice and again before he's coming deep inside her, a low, guttural bellow marking his release.

He flips them over with the last of his strength, so that he can collapse against the pillows, pulling Elle weakly to his sweat drenched chest. And when Sylar looks over at Luke, glancing at him through heavy-lidded, fuck dazed eyes, that's when Luke comes with a pretty mewl, semen spurting over his hand, hot, white flecks splattering over Sylar's cheek, catching in a sticky mess on his stubble. Elle laughs breathlessly, her chin resting on Sylar's shoulder and Luke laughs too. He kicks off his come stained jeans, sprawls lazily up against Sylar's side. Sylar watches with one eyebrow raised at Luke's as audacity he licks each of his own fingers clean before dragging himself up on one elbow and grinning down at him.

"Sorry," he breathes, hardly sounding sorry at all. He holds Sylar's jaw steady with his spit-damp fingers and laps Sylar's skin clean, the grate of his tongue over stubble a soothing rasp in amidst their post-coital sighs and panting.

"All better, now?" he asks, his fingers pointing to Sylar's cleansed skin but his eyes glancing hopefully between him and Elle. Sylar cups him by the back of the neck, kisses him sleepily on the lips and murmurs back, "All better."

Luke makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and with an almighty yawn, slings one arm possessively around Sylar's middle. His hand snakes between Elle and Sylar, a warm weight that keeps their bellies from pressing together fully and he digs his fingers into Sylar's skin to mark his territory. Sylar has half a mind to throw him away, to show the kid just who owns who, but Luke's snuffling exhaustedly as he nuzzles against his chest hair and to Sylar's surprise, Elle's stroking his arm tenderly, shushing him to sleep, so, with a thought, he turns off the lights instead.

A smile tugs at the corner of Sylar's mouth when Luke's thumb moves instinctively to his lips, sucking noisily, like he always does, no matter how much he denies it when awake.

"He's adorable," Elle whispers. She runs her fingers through his hair, the barest glimmer of blue sparks trailing in her wake. Luke gasps happily around his thumb; his lips make wet, smacking sounds, sucking harder as he settles deeper into sleep.

Sylar watches her watching Luke, taking in the way her expression softens in the near pitch darkness of the room. He sees her smile a small, sad smile and instead of being consumed with suffocating jealousy as before, his chest is tight with something like contentment. He feels calm inside in a way that he hasn't felt for far too long, and he thinks that maybe this is how all those cogs and springs are meant to fit together to quiet that ticking in his mind.

He brushes his fingers over Luke's cheek, cranes his neck to press a fond kiss to the soft hair at his temple. Affectionately, he murmurs, "He's a brat."

Elle's eyes narrow as she looks at him, and then looks away. "He deserves better than you."

Her voice sounds more tired than angry, and as she moves to the edge of the bed, wincing at the ache between her legs as she buttons her skirt around her hips, Sylar grabs her gently by the wrist. "He could have you."

He pulls her hand towards him, kissing the delicate skin at her inner wrist. Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, and the steady beat drowns out the unfamiliar sound of longing in his own voice. She sighs at the tenderness of the kiss, stretches out her fingers to caress the spit-damp stubble at his jaw. But she shakes her head, too, snorts harshly when she says, "I'm no one's mother."

And now her back is to him and she's tugging those tawdry boots up over her knees from where they've slouched down to her calves as they fucked. The metallic rumble of the zippers drawn up their sides echoes that bone deep shudder of falsehood down his spine.

"Elle," he whispers hoarsely, but she ignores him, fishing her bra from where it's been flung beneath the bed. She knots the ties behind her back and neck, her too-long hair swept forward messily, over one shoulder. He struggles to move off the bed, out from under Luke's sleep-heavy weight but Luke's fingers cling to him, five points of desperate pressure latching to his ribs. He whimpers pitifully as Sylar disturbs his sleep, catapulting him from dreams to nightmares.

"Hush," Sylar murmurs without thinking, cupping Luke's jaw to soothe him. Sylar's moving slower now, still urgent but more deliberate. He takes a pillow, warm from where his head has been, and slides it into Luke's grasping embrace, swaddling a blanket around him.

He turns to Elle, his heart pounding demandingly in his chest, the torrent of questions pressing at his lips caught short by the wistful way she looks at him and Luke. He swallows down the lump that's rising in his throat, steps into his discarded jeans and yanks them up to stall for time, his attention torn between the two as the delicate balance he thought they'd found seems shattered.

He steps towards her, touching the pads of his fingers tentatively to the skin below her navel, biting at his bottom lip and caressing her stomach more firmly when she seems to sag into his touch. He smoothes patterns on her skin, his palm prickling at the certainty of a new life growing inside her. And now he sees what he didn't see before: she's more rounded at the edges than when he left her, her eyes more tired, the steps she takes more careful and considered.

Sylar brushes the bangs back from her forehead, fingers the line of a scar that's no longer there and says, "I take better care of my things, now, Elle."

He wants to fold his arms around her, to draw her to his chest and say, "I'll take better care of you, Elle," but it isn't in him to beg.

She lays her hand flat to his uncovered chest, splays his fingers over his heart; in those spiked heels she wears, she barely needs to strain to kiss him softly on the lips. "I stopped being yours when you left me behind."

As she pulls away, a spark crackles between their mouths. The burn is tart like acid, that same penny-copper aftertaste as blood, and the familiarity of it is worse than any slap across the face. She pulls Luke's sweatshirt over her head, looking younger and more breakable as she's swamped within the folds of fabric. She gathers her hair up off her shoulders, knots it quickly at the back of her neck, practical now, efficient. One hand snakes into the pouch-like pocket that spans her belly and she holds it there, protective and possessive.

Her jaw is set; she pulls the brown hood up to shield her head. And as she turns away, the motel room door creaking as she draws it open, she looks over her shoulder at him and says, "Tell the kid, 'thanks', from me."


End file.
